The next morning at breakfast, the distance between them stretched across a twelve-seat table that neither of them filled, and when she finally gathered the courage to speak, her voice sounded smaller than she intended. “Good morning.” He paused mid-motion, fork hovering above his plate. “…Good morning,” he replied, his voice deep, controlled, but not cruel. She waited for more. There was none.
Days turned into weeks, and what unsettled her most was not mistreatment, but absence, because Bastian never raised his voice, never demanded her presence, never imposed rules beyond basic courtesy, and although she had prepared herself for captivity, what she found instead was something colder: indifference.
One evening, unable to bear the silence, she confronted him in the library. “Why did you agree to this marriage?” she asked. He looked up slowly from a stack of financial reports. “Your father asked for assistance.” “And you required marriage in exchange.” “Yes.”
“Why?” He studied her for a long moment. “Because charity invites parasites,” he said calmly. “Contracts invite clarity.” “And what am I?” she pressed. His eyes flickered. “…An obligation.” The word stung more than cruelty would have.
Months passed, and rumors followed her everywhere she went, because society does not forgive women who marry power, and it certainly does not spare those who marry perceived monsters, and at charity galas she overheard whispers just loud enough to penetrate her composure. “She’s brave.” “She’s desperate.” “She’s trapped.” “She sold herself.”
One night, after returning home earlier than planned, she found Bastian standing alone in the dark garden, his massive silhouette outlined by moonlight. “They stare at you too,” she said quietly. “I know.” “Does it bother you?” “Yes.” It was the first honest, unguarded answer he had ever given her.
“You could fix it,” she suggested impulsively. “Surgery. Reconstruction. You’re wealthy enough.” He turned his distorted face toward her. “And become acceptable?” “Is that so terrible?” He held her gaze longer than usual. “Acceptance is expensive,” he said. “It costs authenticity.”
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